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To Daniel Fouquet.
On the winter horizon, vast, uniform and empty,
The sky was azure, the air peaceful and limpid;
The snow sparkled on the ground and the trees,
In infinite crystals, whiter than those of the marbles
That have just been opened by the blow of the hammer;
No cry, no sound of wind, of branches, nor of water.
An immense silence had filled the space;
Everything was suspended; all that lives and passes,
Moves, sings, quivers, worries, desires,
Like the movements in the veins of porphyry,
Seemed to be fixed for the final rest,
In an indestructible and lucid crystal,
But how beautiful everything was! the crimes of life,
The sorrows with which it is never appeased,
Its execrable game of pursuit and fear,
The clamor of combat with which the earth is gripped,
All the evil effort seemed to be halted,
Under this sky pure and cold as eternity.
In this powerful sleep of snows and frost,
My heart, heavy with sorrow, was surprised to be alive;
This impassive peace, like the wisdom
Of the World, made it feel its distress more,
For alone it throbbed and thought it suffered alone
In this universal and glorious shroud.
And my heart, reflecting that crime and that suffering
Are the colors of the dark river of existence,
Said to itself: “White Death alone is pure and serene!
Will it ever be the pitiful queen
Of a universe withdrawn from days and from instants?
When will the anguish of springs end?”
But, above the pale brow of a hill,
In the clarity of the air, so cold and crystalline
That tears could not have been born in its dryness,
Rising like an omen and like a promise,
And taking hold of the sky by its increased brightness,
The great frozen globe of the moon appeared!
Auguste Angellier
Translation generated by Poésies 123 with assistance from the deepseek-chat artificial-intelligence model.
Text published on Poésies 123: https://www.poesies123.com/en/poem-the-peace-of-winter-auguste-angellier/